


Jewels

by chiarascuron



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Breathplay, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24466507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiarascuron/pseuds/chiarascuron
Summary: For the fe3k kinkmeme: "Ferdinand/Hubert + Enemies Forced Them To Do It"When some nefarious dissidents break into the palace in Enbarr, they find the Prime Minister asleep and vulnerable. Hubert tries to come to Ferdinand's aid, and their enemies take advantage of having both the Two Jewels in hand.Pretty straightforward Fuck or Die. Ferdinand and Hubert have secret feelings for one another.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 9
Kudos: 298





	Jewels

**Author's Note:**

> If I'm missing any tags, particularly any that are content warnings, please, please let me know.

In the east wing of the Imperial Palace in Enbarr, the Prime Minister’s chambers are lit by a single, old-fashioned candle lamp. Ferdinand stands before his vanity in the flickering light, bending to inhale the steam from the teapot he’s set to rest there. It’s an herbal mix – calming, with notes of chamomile and lavender. He brews it before sleep on days when his mind is restless. The war may be behind them nearly two years now, but there are still nights when Ferdinand dreams of falling from his horse, hooves trampling the earth beside his fallen form, of smoke in his eyes and screams in his ears.

The tea, along with an additive provided to him by the Emperor’s spymaster, will help him bypass these dreams. He’ll wake tomorrow ready to serve his country.

When the teacup is empty, Ferdinand carries the lamp over to his overlarge four poster bed and climbs in as the stupor slowly rolls over him. He reads for a little while, until his vision blurs too much for the words to take root. Then he sets aside the book, extinguishes the candle, and surrenders to the darkness.

His sleep is deep enough to preclude dreams. It’s also deep enough that he doesn’t hear the scrape of a pick in the lock of his antechamber, or the shuffling of footsteps in his study, or the coarse sound of glee that accompanies the intruders’ discovery of his unconscious person.

* * *

Across the palace, Hubert is deeply engrossed in a report from one of his spies in Morfis when there is a whirring sound from his desk. He looks up, eyes snapping to the series of little metal contraptions that sit on the desk’s edge. Though they’re easily mistaken for decoration, they are in fact monitoring devices, set to alert him if unknown persons have entered the inner chambers of a number of the Empire’s most important assets.

The one that’s just been set rattling is an abstract cluster of intertwined copper wires, representing the Prime Minister’s quarters. Frowning, Hubert sets his report aside and considers his next move. It’s possible, of course, that Ferdinand has simply extended an invitation for someone to join him in his bedchambers without Hubert’s knowledge – a thought that definitely _doesn’t_ make Hubert grimace – but the intensity of the wires’ vibration would suggest more than one guest. Deciding it prudent to investigate, Hubert stands, focuses, and warps to the hallway just outside the Prime Minister’s wing.

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. The fine mahogany door is ajar, a careless gesture that isn’t like Ferdinand. Not only that, there are scratches around the keyhole. And if that weren’t enough, a sudden shout from the inner chambers sets Hubert rushing in, one hand grasping in his breast pocket for the jade stone he keeps for emergencies. Byleth is due back from a mission tonight – Hubert prays he’ll see the signal in time.

As he pushes into the antechamber, he spots a shadowy figure by the fireplace, currently in the process of prying a ceremonial Aegir sword from its mount on the mantle. Hubert’s appearance startles him, and he reaches for the cutlass at his belt, but Hubert is much quicker – a burst of miasma sends the thief crumpling to the ground. Without sparing a thought, Hubert pushes on, rushing through the familiar study with its crimson curtains as the shouting from the bedchamber grows louder.

The sight that greets him as he bursts into the inner chambers sends his heart straight into his stomach. Ferdinand struggles against two men on his bed, thrashing against their efforts to pin him down. He moves not like the wiry, war-hardened general he is, but with the panic and disorientation of a man gripped by a nightmare, though his wide eyes testify that this is no dream. He’s shouting something, but it’s hard to understand what as a third attacker is in the process of wrenching a belt into his mouth.

Rage rising behind his eyes, Hubert has just raised his hand to cast Mire when something sharp pricks against the side of his neck.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, dog,” a rough voice hisses into his ear.

Hubert freezes. In his haste, he hadn’t noticed a fourth man just inside. Now, that man holds a blade to Hubert’s throat, the other arm encircling his torso to keep him from twisting away.

Ferdinand’s eyes flick to the door, drowsy and dilated and full of fear. They go wider when they meet Hubert’s, and Hubert doesn’t dare move, not because there is a knife on his jugular, but because Ferdinand looks _anguished_ to see him, like Hubert is the last person in the world he wished had come through that door. At the sight of the knife, the fight seems to drain out of him and he ceases his thrashing, breathing hard as he is finally subdued.

“Now this is an unexpected treat,” says the man whose blade is at Hubert’s neck. His voice is coarse, with a faint accent – Faerghan?

As one of the other men unhooks a coil of rope from his belt, Hubert quickly calculates the time it would take to draw the dagger from his sleeve, incapacitate his assailant, and reach Ferdinand. But it’s much too long. He could extricate himself, probably, but there are too many steps between him and the bed; he wouldn’t be fast enough to stop any retaliation against the Prime Minister.

“What do you want?” Hubert spits to buy time, Adam’s apple bobbing against the knifetip.

“Originally?” the man says. He slides a hand into Hubert’s jacket, withdrawing his spell tome and casting it aside; it lands askew on the floor, pages bent over one another. “To collect a few imperial treasures, and deliver a message for Her Majesty.”

He drawls out the title like it’s a bitter taste on his tongue. On the bed, the man with the rope finishes tying off one of Ferdinand’s wrists, securing it to his bedpost, then moves on to the other. One of the others runs an exploring hand through his hair, at which Ferdinand jerks away, making a sound of alarm around the belt in his mouth.

“And now?” Hubert asks through gritted teeth, unable to look away.

The dagger in his sleeve is next, clattering to the hardwood floor. After a moment’s thought, Hubert’s assailant divests him of his jacket, the hand not pressing the blade to his throat questing across him for further weapons. Hubert’s two pushknives and one pouch of warp beads quickly join the tome and the dagger on floor.

“Mostly the same,” the man says. “Though it looks like we’ll have a nice stop on the way. I have to wonder at our luck. Both of the Jewels of the Empire, in one hand…”

“We have time, don’t we?” says one of the others, a brown-haired man with sinewy arms. He runs a hand over Ferdinand’s chest, exploring the contours of his pectorals through his thin nightshirt. “I’d heard talk of the handsome Prime Minister of Adrestia, but he’s even lovelier up close.”

Hubert sees red. He wrenches away from the man at his back and lunges forward, but a swift kick to the back of his legs sends him falling hard onto his knees, and a moment later the blade is nudging up into his ribs, having slid easily through the fabric of his shirt.

“Careful, Vestra,” his attacker growls, pressing the knife in. “I might get the idea that you’d rather we move on to the Emperor’s chambers right away.”

Hubert’s blood runs cold. From the bed, Ferdinand makes another noise, shaking his head in protest.

“See?” says the brown-haired man. His hand dips beneath Ferdinand’s neckline this time, palming over his bare skin and groping eagerly. “You heard him. He wants us to stay, boss.”

Hubert’s attacker, apparently the band’s leader, chuckles, grabbing Hubert’s jaw to force his gaze directly at the bed. Ferdinand lies still over the sheets with his arms spread and tethered, mouth stretched around the belt, one man’s hand down his shirt and another’s rubbing at his muscular thighs. He won’t look at Hubert now, eyes flickering around the room as if seeking something, _anything_ else to focus on. Hubert is one of the most powerful mages in Fodlan, and he feels absolutely powerless.

The leader lets this go on for a moment, lets the three men on the bed explore Ferdinand’s unresponding body with their hands and occasionally their mouths, until he suddenly waves them off. They comply, though their disappointment is obvious as they pull away and move off the bed.

“You,” he says to Hubert, pulling the knife away and shoving him forward, so he falls to his hands and knees. “Strip him.”

“What?”

The word barely escapes Hubert’s mouth, dazed and disbelieving.

“You’re a smart man,” says the leader, “And you’re not deaf, either. Strip him.”

Hubert shoots an incredulous look back at the man. He rises to his knees, then his feet, taking a halting step toward the bed, where Ferdinand has now squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing accelerating once more.

“Ferdinand,” he says quietly. “I-“

“Get on with it,” says one of the other men, a ponytailed brute, hand on the hilt of his rapier.

Hubert kneels on the side of the bed, feeling sick with dread. The first brush of his hand on Ferdinand’s side makes the man flinch, a harsh gasp escaping around the gag, and his amber eyes fly open. _Sothis,_ they’re full of tears.

Hubert steadies his own breathing and his hands, trying to stay calm. Without weapons or tomes, and without knowing if Byleth has returned to Lady Edelgard’s side, the danger of disobeying is too great. And Ferdinand – Hubert’s most trusted colleague, his hard-won friend, the Empire’s right hand – Ferdinand would make the same assessment, he knows.

Hubert’s fingers deftly untie the laces of Ferdinand’s nightshirt, his touch light and glancing as he parts the fabric to reveal the Prime Minister’s muscular torso. He can’t actually remove the garment with Ferdinand’s hands bound, so he moves on instead to his breeches, sliding them down and off his legs.

He wants to fold them, set them aside, wants to somehow give the act some dignity. But an impatient grunt from one of the intruders tells him this is out of the question. So they go on the floor, and Hubert’s hands go back to Ferdinand’s undergarments, hesitating.

“Look,” says one of the intruders, the barrel-chested man who brought the rope that now binds Ferdinand’s wrists. “The little whore is getting hard.”

Ferdinand’s eyes squeeze shut again, shame blossoming in pink across his face. Hubert’s own eyes flick down. Indeed, the outline of the Prime Minister’s semi-erect cock is clearly visible through his smallclothes.

“I’ve heard _those_ rumors, too,” says the brown-haired man with a grin. “About the Two Jewels.”

Hubert has, as well. He’s dismissed them, because the idea that Ferdinand – winsome, radiant Ferdinand, beloved across the Empire – would ever consider letting a snake like Hubert into his bed is nothing short of laughable. The reminder, in light of the current situation, makes Hubert feel sick to his stomach.

“So you’ve done this before,” says the barrel-chested man to Hubert, leering. “Don’t be shy on our account.”

There’s no point in correcting him, and no way around it. As efficiently and gently as he can, Hubert divests Ferdinand of his undergarments. Just the brush of Hubert’s fingertips against Ferdinand’s thighs is enough to make the other man shiver, a pathetic whimper escaping his mouth as his cock meets the cool air. Hubert shifts his own position on the bed, trying to shield Ferdinand’s near-naked body from the eyes of the intruders, but they easily adjust to take in the view.

“Goddess,” says the leader, who has taken a seat at Ferdinand’s vanity to watch the proceedings. “He _is_ beautiful, isn’t he?”

Hubert tries not to think about it. He tries not to notice the pretty pink flush that has worked its way from Ferdinand’s freckled cheeks all the way down his neck and chest, the tantalizing orange hairs that run from his navel and thicken toward his jutting cock, the way his open nightshirt drapes so nicely off his chiseled frame. He forces his mind elsewhere – to battlefields and lectures and endless political meetings, anything but the obscene sight of Adrestia’s Prime Minister exposed on his back before him.

“Touch him,” says the leader.

Hubert grits his teeth. Ferdinand blinks up at him, something pleading in his eyes.

Leaning over Ferdinand’s body, Hubert cups a hand to his face. Ferdinand doesn’t recoil, but he doesn’t lean into the touch either, just stares up at Hubert, trembling, a thin dribble of spit trailing from the corner of his gagged mouth.

“I’m sorry,” says Hubert.

He’s torn between wanting to brush his thumb over Ferdinand’s cheekbone, to bring some kind of tenderness to this hell, and wondering if it would be better to be as cold and efficient as possible. If Ferdinand’s reaction to his arrival in the room is any indication, probably the latter. So he swallows the impulse and instead trails his hand lower, over the long column of Ferdinand’s neck and down to the swell of his pecs.

He can feel their attackers’ eyes on him and by now he understands the game. If he doesn’t make a show of this, it’ll only bring more pain. So he rolls a nipple between gloved fingertips, passes a hand over the flex in Ferdinand’s outstretched bicep, explores the hard ridges of his abdominal muscles. He grips those powerful thighs, fingers sinking into the dense flesh, and caresses the stark lines of Ferdinand’s hipbones.

Ferdinand is clearly trying not to react, but he grows harder with each pass of Hubert’s hands on him, stifled little gasps and whimpers leaking out around the belt in his mouth, the flush of his face growing ever darker.

“You’ve got more than hands, lapdog,” says the leader. “Put your mouth to work.”

Hubert complies, sucking one hardened nipple into his mouth. Ferdinand makes a tortured sound, back arching into the touch, hands jerking towards Hubert as if to grab his head, but they’re harshly halted by his bonds.

“Oh, he liked that,” says the ponytailed man interestedly. Hubert notices with disgust that he’s pulled out his own cock now, pumping it lazily. “Do it again.”

Hubert does, this time to the other side. Once again Ferdinand moans, louder when Hubert’s hand comes up to pinch the nipple he’s not currently suckling. For a minute or so, Hubert works Ferdinand’s chest, laving his tongue and hands over that warm, freckled skin, so smooth and taut except for the occasional disruption of a scar.

His lips wander, and he ends up mouthing at Ferdinand’s elegant neck, one hand slipped under him to grip the muscles of his back while the other tangles into his hair. This close, he can feel Ferdinand’s breath against his temple, hot and uneven. And when he pulls back, Ferdinand’s cock is weeping, flushed and rock hard against his abdomen.

To Hubert’s humiliation, he finds that he’s hard, too.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“So these are the Jewels of the Empire,” says the barrel-chested man, amusement and disgust in his voice. “The emperor’s lapdog and his little bitch. Pathetic.”

“Aegir is known for its hounds,” the leader remarks, standing to get a better vantage point. “But I’m surprised at you, Vestra. You have a reputation as a man of restraint. Yet here you are, cornered and cowed, and still so eager.”

He steps to the bed and reaches out to grab Hubert’s erection roughly through his trousers, as though feeling for a weapon.

“You want to fuck him, don’t you?” he hisses into Hubert’s ear. “You want to put him on his knees and rut into him like the imperial dogs you are.”

Hubert feels a sudden movement below him, and a split second later the man grunts, knocked back by a fierce kick from one of Ferdinand’s powerful legs. Immediately, his subordinates rush forward, grabbing for their blades. It’s over in a matter of seconds, the ponytailed man’s rapier at Hubert’s breast and the brown-haired man’s axe tickling Ferdinand’s throat while a fresh bruise blooms on his cheek.

Hubert wants to shake Ferdinand, ask him why he’d be so _stupid_ as to provoke their tormentors, but he doesn’t have the chance. At a gesture from their leader, the other intruders make quick work of his clothes, buttons skittering as his shirt is wrenched open and his trousers are tugged down his legs. Before he can process what’s happening, he’s back on his knees on the bed, bare but for his gloves.

“Try that again and we’ll tie your legs, too,” the leader snarls at Ferdinand. He turns to Hubert. “You know what to do.”

Ferdinand attempts to look defiant, but the crack to his face seems to have dazed him. He’s sagging in his bonds and his eyes have taken on a sort of distant quality. Alarmed, Hubert reaches for him, turning his chin to see if his eyes track, and sighing in relief when they do.

He hesitates a moment, fingertips gentle against the edge of Ferdinand’s jaw, wishing desperately for just one warp bead. He should have used Ferdinand’s distraction to lunge for his tome, should have taken the time to scope the situation before rushing in, should have insisted on guards outside every ministerial chamber…

“If you’re going to take all night, one of my men would be glad to take your place,” says the leader impatiently. “Orlov here has an impressive piece. You could watch him split your precious prime minister in two, if you’d prefer.”

Hubert looks down at Ferdinand. The younger man’s breath is uneven and his arms are trembling from the strain of being twisted and bound. He’s avoiding Hubert’s eyes again.

“This is your last chance, lapdog,” the leader says. “Fuck him, or take your chances – well, _his_ chances – on someone else doing the job less _carefully_.”

And finally Ferdinand turns his head to look at Hubert, resignation joining the fear in his eyes. He can’t talk, not with the thick band of leather pulled tight through his mouth, but he gives a tiny nod of his head, averting his gaze immediately after.

“All right,” says Hubert, drawing in a sickened breath. Then again, quieter, as if to himself: “All right.”

The blow Ferdinand took to the face has his erection flagging, so Hubert runs his hands back down his chest, bending to suck once again at the side of his neck, employing soft little touches along his inner thighs to reawaken his arousal. Ferdinand stares at the ceiling, occasionally squeezing his eyes shut when Hubert’s mouth or hands brush against somewhere particularly sensitive, otherwise submitting to the touch.

Hubert hesitates as his hands reach the apex of Ferdinand’s thighs. When the other man doesn’t shift away, he steels himself, then takes Ferdinand’s dick in hand and strokes it gently. Ferdinand lets out a shaky breath around the gag at that, hips twitching into the touch. Hubert feels his own cock throb.

Ferdinand’s cock is hot and hard in Hubert’s hand, even as he keeps his touches light and glancing. It’s almost intimate, the way those amber eyes flutter closed at the soft brush of Hubert’s kidskin glove over his length, the way Ferdinand’s body twists slightly as he fights the impulse to thrust closer. Hubert finds himself watching Ferdinand’s face closely, adjusting his touch with each little sound that escapes him, learning what brings him pleasure.

But soon enough, the sounds of impatient shifting behind him tell him he needs to move things along.

Hubert leans in over Ferdinand, lips brushing against his ear as he strokes his cock.

“Do you have something to ease the way?” he murmurs. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Ferdinand hesitates before he nods, jerking his head towards the nightstand. Hubert sits up, trying not to react to the way Ferdinand whimpers at the loss of the hand on his cock. He casts a glance back at their captors, who blessedly make no move to stop him when he reaches for the drawer. All but the leader now have their members in hand, watching the two of them on the bed with hungry, contemptuous expressions.

The drawer is neatly organized, partitioned into sections for the different items within – a few half-burned candles, a vellum journal, a pair of leather gloves, a tin that smells strangely of coffee. Hubert finds a small bottle beside the gloves and withdraws it, definitely _not_ thinking about the other times Ferdinand must have availed himself of its contents, the Prime Minister slicking up a callused hand to wrap around his erect member in the dark of his bedchambers. Who would Ferdinand have thought about on one of those lonely nights, Hubert wonders? Maybe Dorothea, with her generous figure and her flirtatious laugh? Or perhaps one of his fellow cavaliers, powerful and war-hardened, eager to please his General?

Hubert shudders. Slipping off one glove, he uncorks the bottle and pours a measure of the lubricant onto his fingers. With his gloved hand, he parts Ferdinand’s thighs, then brings his slicked fingers between Ferdinand’s legs to seek his entrance. For his part, Ferdinand lies absolutely still, eyes back on the ceiling, hands tightly gripping the ropes that bind his wrists to the bed.

A choked sound escapes Ferdinand’s gagged mouth as Hubert’s finger breaches him, but he bucks _into_ the touch and not away from it. Hubert finds himself buried to the first knuckle, the second following soon after as Ferdinand pushes against him. The expression on the other man’s face is agonied, yet his eyes are half-lidded and blown such that his irises are barely an amber penumbra, the freckles on his face stark against his deep flush. His chest heaves, drawing harsh breaths through the gag as he adjusts to the feeling.

The other men are saying something, but Hubert is too caught in Ferdinand’s expression to hear what. He works his finger deeper, thrusting it in and out for as long as he dares before moving to add another. Ferdinand is so tight and hot around his fingers, the slick of the lubrication just barely enough to get them past his pucker. Knowing that Ferdinand will need to be able to take quite a bit more than two of his own slender digits, Hubert begins to scissor and twist them, doing his best to loosen the tight muscle of Ferdinand’s asshole.

He’s just succeeded in adding a third finger when the leader growls in impatience behind him.

“Is your cock just for show, Vestra?” he snaps. “He’s ready. Fuck the bitch already.”

Hubert knows he isn’t. Ferdinand’s hole is clenching around his fingers, still so tight despite his efforts. Ferdinand seems to know it too, fear flickering in his expression as his eyes meet Hubert’s. But he spreads his legs further and takes a deep breath, giving another little nod.

Hubert takes his place between Ferdinand’s legs. He picks up the bottle, coats his own aching shaft as well as he can, and reaches down to guide the head of his cock to Ferdinand’s waiting entrance.

As he begins to press forward, he thinks of all the times he’s imagined something like this moment. If it ever happened – which it wouldn’t -- Ferdinand would look up at him, trust and love shining in his eyes, his hair like a shining halo bellow them. He’d loop his arms around Hubert’s neck, or cradle his face in his hands, perhaps kiss him as he sank home. He’d be well-prepared, because Hubert would spend all the time in the world driving him wild with his fingers, his lips, his tongue before even getting close to entering him.

But this is nothing like those foolish fantasies. Ferdinand’s face is twisted in pain as the head of Hubert’s dick pushes into him, his hole stretching against its considerable girth. His hands don’t reach for Hubert; they can’t, left to scrabble against the air where they’re bound. And no kisses or declarations of love come from those beautiful lips, just a wretched sob around the gag that gapes his mouth.

“ _Ferdinand_ ,” Hubert gasps despite himself, overcome by the sensation of his cock pressing inch by inch into the other man. He doesn’t know if the name is an apology or a prayer or something else entirely.

He makes it in about halfway before he can go no further. Pulling his hips back, he begins to thrust slowly, shallowly, shivering at the drag of his cockhead against Ferdinand’s inner walls. Ferdinand is trembling, tears pooling in his eyes as Hubert takes himself a little deeper with each thrust. He spreads his legs yet further, trying to accommodate the thick member.

Gritting his teeth in a bid to keep his composure, Hubert returns his hand to Ferdinand’s cock, pumping it to distract him from the pain. To his surprise, after only a moment or two Ferdinand begins to rock back against him, tilting his hips to try out different angles. And then, abruptly, a certain thrust goes just a bit deeper and it has him howling into his gag, eyes snapping wide as his back arches.

Hubert hurries to repeat the gesture, driving forward at the same angle, and the result is nearly the same, though the sound this time is more of a helpless groan. He runs his thumb across the head of Ferdinand’s cock, using the precum gathering from his slit to slicken his hand as he pumps him.

“Such noises, Prime Minister,” the intruders’ leader remarks, startling Hubert, who had almost forgotten their audience. “What do you think, should we let him scream properly?”

Suddenly the man’s hands are between them, reaching for Ferdinand’s face. Hubert fights the impulse to grab that arm, twist it, break it any of the half-dozen ways he knows how, but he controls himself and just keeps driving into Ferdinand’s body, beginning to develop a rhythm.

With the click of a buckle, the belt slides free from Ferdinand’s mouth. He sobs in relief, chin dripping with his own spit, the corners of his lips raw and reddened. Hubert is seized with a powerful urge to kiss that abused mouth, to swallow the sounds coming from it and keep them for himself. Again, he fights the feeling and focuses on the rolling of his hips into Ferdinand’s, a little deeper each time.

Finally, _finally,_ Hubert feels himself bottom out, his balls brushing against Ferdinand’s thick ass as he sinks fully into him. He still his hips for just a moment, bracing himself over the other man and letting his forehead come to rest against his. They’re both sweaty and breathing hard, Hubert with the effort of moving slowly and carefully, Ferdinand with the stretch of Hubert’s full cock inside him.

“Move,” Ferdinand gasps weakly after a moment. “Please.”

Goddess, Hubert had missed his voice, his _true_ voice, not the animal sounds that had escaped the gag. Nodding, he lifts himself back up, moving his hands to the undersides of Ferdinand’s muscular thighs. Pressing him gently open, Hubert resumes thrusting, motions growing a little less measured as Ferdinand seems to adjust to the feeling of him.

There are tears in Ferdinand’s eyes as Hubert begins to fuck him in earnest, rocking his pliant body with each slow, deep thrust. Hubert reaches down as if to brush them away but falters, instead tangling his hand into Ferdinand’s hair. His impulse to comfort wars with the knowledge that he needs to keep this as impersonal as possible, if it’s possible to describe having your cock in another man as impersonal.

Hubert has just succeeded in finding an angle that makes Ferdinand moan when that rough voice sounds from behind them once again.

“Choke him.”

Hubert pretends he can’t hear, driving deep and twisting his hand around Ferdinand’s length. Then he yelps as he feels a sharp pain sear across the back of his left shoulder, the sting of a buckle cutting into his flesh as the leather length of the belt cracks across his skin.

“I said, choke him.”

“Just do it, Hubert,” Ferdinand whispers hoarsely. “I trust you.”

He looks so different from the bold, gregarious figure he cuts in the Imperial Court, lying there with his cheek bruised and lips swollen, sweat beading on his brow from the exertion of taking Hubert inside him. This time, Hubert can’t hold himself back. He leans down and captures that reddened mouth with his own, a sick parody of the kisses he’s imagined stealing from the Prime Minister’s lips so many times before. He feels Ferdinand tense for a split second and nearly pulls away. But before he can, the other man relaxes and tilts his head up, allowing for a better, deeper angle.

As Ferdinand’s mouth opens to him, Hubert’s tongue pressing into that sweet cavern, Hubert slides his still-gloved hand up Ferdinand’s chest, across his clavicle, until it’s resting lightly around his windpipe. He pulls back from the kiss to allow Ferdinand to draw a breath, then begins to tighten his grip.

Hubert is no stranger to the act. But choking the object of his deeply hidden desires while he fucks him deep is another matter entirely. To his shame, he feels his arousal grow at the way Ferdinand’s lashes flutter shut and his body tenses when Hubert’s firm grip grows stronger still. He tries to hold back, but the next few thrusts into Ferdinand’s body are particularly brutal, the slap of his hips against Ferdinand’s ass seeming to fill the room. Finally, when he feels the cords of Ferdinand’s neck straining against his hand and sees a bluish tint appear on his cheeks, he releases him.

The sound Ferdinand makes when Hubert lets go is indescribable, somewhere between a moan and a scream. Tears stream freely from his half-lidded eyes now. He sucks in breath in ragged gulps as Hubert keeps up the pace, fucking him through the rush.

The second time Hubert chokes him, Ferdinand lifts his pelvis off the bed, desperately rolling his hips against Hubert’s in an attempt to get closer. The third time, his eyes roll back in his head as Hubert practically folds him in half to drive into him hard and fast.

Hubert doesn’t dare try for a fourth. He’s so far gone, his normally impeccable composure in tatters as he grips Ferdinand’s hips and pistons into him, watching the younger man’s face contort in mindless, excruciating pleasure. They’re both close, he knows.

“F-Ferdinand,” he manages to gasp out, bending over him, Ferdinand’s erection bouncing between their stomachs.

He doesn’t get out another word as Ferdinand’s mouth finds his in a desperate kiss. Another few savage thrusts; Hubert swallows the keening sounds from Ferdinand’s mouth and moves a hand to his cock, and this is all it takes. Ferdinand comes with a broken wail, spurting across both their chests, arms taut against his restraints as his whole body rocks up into Hubert’s.

“Keep going,” the voice orders. “Don’t even think about pulling out.”

Hubert can feel the muscles of Ferdinand’s asshole clenching around him, rippling from the force of his orgasm, and it takes everything he has not to empty himself right there. He grits his teeth, braces himself with an arm on either side of Ferdinand’s chest, and hammers into his yielding body with abandon. One, two, _three_ deep thrusts, and on the fourth Hubert can’t hold back any longer. With a choked groan, he buries himself as deep as he can and pours his seed into the Prime Minister.

It’s a long moment he lingers there, both of them gasping for breath, Hubert half-collapsed over Ferdinand’s chest with his dick still twitching inside him. Then a sudden noise from the antechamber draws the attention of every person in the room.

Hubert’s heart freezes. _Byleth._

Their attackers hurry to tuck themselves away and seize their weapons, seeming to find no threat in the two men collapsed on the bed. They rush into the study, one after another, the door swinging shut after them. There are a few short shouts, the singing slash of the Sword of the Creator, and the successive _thuds_ of four bodies hitting the floor. Hubert hears bootsteps approaching the door and his mind seems to whir back to life all of a sudden. Quickly, he withdraws from Ferdinand, wincing as his softening dick slips free.

“Byleth!” he calls. “Please, come no further. Is Lady Edelgard safe?”

“Yes,” Byleth’s voice says through the door to the study. “Are you?”

_No,_ Hubert wants to say, taking in Ferdinand’s tearstained face, his bruised and trembling arms, the seed dribbling from his half-gaped hole.

To his surprise, Ferdinand answers instead.

“Yes,” he calls, though his voice is so quiet and wrecked, Hubert worries it won’t be heard. “We are now, Professor. Please return to Lady Edelgard.”

Byleth hesitates a moment, but eventually Hubert hears his footsteps cross the room and fade. He and Ferdinand both let out a deep breath. They’ll deal with that later – the bodies in the study, the version of events to tell the Emperor.

He turns back towards Ferdinand, quickly reaching up to untie the knots that hold him to the bedframe. The moment the ropes slip free, Ferdinand rolls onto his side and curls in on himself, facing away from Hubert on the bed. His orange hair spills over his face like a protective curtain.

Hubert hesitates.

“I – Ferdinand,” he says quietly, not daring to touch him, but not daring to leave him alone either. “I…I could send someone – Manuela?”

Without changing his position, Ferdinand shakes his head.

Hubert doesn’t know what to do. It’s over – their attackers lie dead in the study – but the feeling of powerlessness lingers. Needing to do _something,_ he pulls the top sheet of Ferdinand’s bed loose and drapes it over him, which to his relief seems to be welcome. Ferdinand draws it tighter around himself, shivering.

“I’m going to draw a bath,” says Hubert. “Please, wait here.”

He gets a tiny nod at that. Suppressing the urge to pass a comforting hand through Ferdinand’s hair, Hubert gets up off the bed, walking on unsteady legs to retrieve his tome and, on a quick second thought, his trousers. He opens the door to the bath chamber that adjoins the Prime Minister’s quarters and sets about filling the tub, lighting the furnace with a fire spell. While he’s there, he quickly washes himself in the sink, though even with the evidence of what just transpired rinsed away, he still feels dirty.

When he returns to the bedchamber, trousers on and a full bath waiting, Ferdinand is exactly where he left him. Slowly, Hubert comes round the side of the bed to sit beside him. Ferdinand’s eyes are half-shut and looks so small, so far away. The skin of his wrists has been rubbed raw, and deep bruises are already beginning to bloom beneath the reddened scrapes.

“Ferdinand,” says Hubert. “Can you stand?”

Ferdinand swallows and nods, wrapping the sheet further around himself. Haltingly, he sits up, maneuvering his legs over the side of the bed. Hubert is torn between moving to help him and the terror of pressing any further unwanted touch onto him. Thankfully Ferdinand manages to rise unaided, crossing the room towards the bathroom with small, stumbling steps. Hubert doesn’t follow, but watches him make the journey, ready to step in if needed.

Ferdinand doesn’t quite shut the door to the bathroom, for which Hubert is grateful. He listens until he hears the soft lap of the water on the bathtub’s edge, heralding Ferdinand’s successful entry. Then he turns his attention to the bedchamber.

The ropes and the belt are tossed out into the study, discarded beside their owners’ bodies. Soon after, they’re joined by the remaining sheets and pillowcases as Hubert locates a spare set in Ferdinand’s armoire. He remakes the bed, folds Ferdinand’s discarded clothes and hangs them on the back of the chair by the vanity, then removes his remaining glove and pulls on his own shirt. It’s missing too many buttons to really cover him, and the cut from the belt lash on his back stings, but Hubert doesn’t have a mind for himself right now. All he can think about is the man in the bath next door, the man he’s spent a decade learning to love and trust, the man he just subjected to a nightmare, however unwillingly.

He’s just returned the little bottle to Ferdinand’s nightstand when there’s a choked sound from the bath chamber. Hubert is across the room before he can even think about it, hesitating with a hand on the doorknob. Through the crack in the doorway he can just see the back of Ferdinand’s head, tilted down as his shoulders shake. That and the soft gasps of his breath are the only hints to his distress.

As his heart clenches, Hubert hesitates once again, unsure if approaching him will just make things worse. But he can’t bring himself to do nothing, so he pushes the door open a little further and takes a tentative step inside.

By the time he reaches Ferdinand’s side, the other man has suppressed his sobs, arms wrapped around his knees as he soaks in the steaming water. His skin is bright red from the bath – Hubert drew it as hot as he dared – and there are teardrops still clinging to his eyelashes. When Hubert kneels beside the bathtub, Ferdinand is silent for a long moment, not meeting his eyes.

“You don’t have to stay,” Ferdinand says finally, voice still rough.

Hubert’s brow creases.

“Do you want me to go?”

The response is immediate.

“No.”

“I would understand if you –”

“-- _No_. Please.” Ferdinand closes his eyes. “I don’t…I don’t want to be alone.”

Hubert nods. He doesn’t, either.

Silence falls again. Hubert looks at the bruise on Ferdinand’s cheek where the one man struck him. He wishes he knew even a simple Heal spell. He wishes he could go back, prevent all this before it started.

It’s a long time before Ferdinand moves again, but he finally leans forward to submerge his face, pulling the water through the orange waves of his hair and resurfacing with a shaky gasp. He begins the process of washing himself, clearly following some kind of routine by the practiced, thoughtless motions of his hands. Hubert feels as though he’s witnessing a rite, one he was never supposed to see.

Hubert brings him a towel when it’s over, offering his arm to assist Ferdinand out of the tub. To his surprise, Ferdinand takes the arm, leaning on Hubert as he gingerly rises and steps out onto the tile floor. Somehow, the simple press of Ferdinand’s hand on his arm feels like a relief. Hubert realizes it’s the first time they’ve touched since he was inside him.

“I don’t want to stay here,” says Ferdinand, as soon as he’s wrapped the towel around his waist. His eyes are stuck on the half-open door to the bedchambers, like what lies beyond is something indescribably awful.

“You don’t have to,” says Hubert, laying his other hand over the one Ferdinand still has on his arm. “Just tell me where.”

“I don’t know,” says Ferdinand. “Anywhere. Your chambers.”

“Are you sure?” Hubert asks.

“Yes,” says Ferdinand, almost impatiently. “Just…one moment.”

He pulls away and steps over to the mirror cabinet, where he withdraws a hairbrush and a simple cerulean ribbon. Then he turns back and nods.

Hubert steps forward, settles his hand on the other man’s shoulder and squeezes gently. There’s a flash of white-hot light before both their eyes, and then they’re blinking into the darkness of Hubert’s empty bedchamber.

Hubert lights a candle. As Ferdinand takes a seat on the edge of the chair by the fireplace, Hubert roots in his drawers for nightclothes that might fit him. Ferdinand begins the arduous task of brushing out his hair. They don’t speak, occupying themselves with their respective tasks in silence, until Hubert notices the tremble in Ferdinand’s hands as he tries to braid his still-wet hair.

“Here,” he says, crossing over to him. He offers the clothes with one hand, reaching a hand towards Ferdinand’s head with the other.

Ferdinand nods mutely, hands lowering the nightclothes to his lap as Hubert’s take up his hair. Hubert is horribly careful, making sure not to tug or twist the beautiful orange strands as he weaves them into a simple plait. He ties it off with the ribbon, then steps away.

Ferdinand dresses quickly in the loose shirt and breeches Hubert has provided. They’re not quite broad enough across the chest, but they’ll do.

Then there’s a silence as they both stare at Hubert’s bed, deep walnut with simple, cream-colored bedclothes.

“Do you want to sleep?” Hubert asks quietly. He knows Ferdinand has trouble with it, sometimes. He’s been brewing him a sleeping aid for the last few years. He wonders if that’s how his attackers were able to surprise him and feels guilt stab through his heart like a Dark Spike.

Ferdinand nods again, climbing into Hubert’s bed. When Hubert doesn’t immediately follow, he pulls back the blankets expectantly and rolls onto his side. Taking a hint, Hubert slips in behind him, leaving plenty of space between them. A flick of his hand sends forth just enough of a Wind spell to extinguish the candle.

In the darkness, Hubert listens to the quiet rasp of Ferdinand’s breathing, the distance between them yawning like a chasm.

“Ferdinand,” says Hubert softly. “I am…truly sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault,” says Ferdinand.

Hubert wants to list the ways he could have acted differently, made things easier if not outright prevented them, but this isn’t about him, and he knows Ferdinand will take it upon himself to defend him if he attempts to do so. So he bites the words back.

“It isn’t yours, either,” he says instead.

Ferdinand _laughs._ It’s a broken sound, soft and despairing.

“I know that is what I am supposed to believe,” he says.

“Ferdinand,” says Hubert, eyes burning through the darkness. “It isn’t. Not one part of it.”

Ferdinand is silent. Hubert desperately wants to reach for him, but he can’t.

“I never imagined it like that,” says Ferdinand finally, his voice hollow and cracking. “Never imagined _you_ like…like that.”

Hubert sucks in a breath, Ferdinand’s words hitting him like a physical blow.

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he says. “I should have found a way to – to stop it, stop them from hurting us, hurting _you_ –”

“Hubert, stop,” says Ferdinand. “Please. Would you…just…hold me? I don’t want to go to sleep with the memory of…of your hands on me that way.”

His voice is so small and vulnerable. Hubert can’t refuse him. He shuffles forward on the mattress until he can feel Ferdinand’s back against his front, carefully folding an arm around his chest. Ferdinand tenses briefly before he eases back against him, shifting down so he can tuck his head beneath Hubert’s chin. He lays a hand on top of the one Hubert has on his stomach. There is a fragility to the whole arrangement that makes Hubert’s heart both ache and race.

“Are you all right?” Ferdinand whispers, apparently hearing the pounding of Hubert’s heart beneath his ear.

“You don’t need to worry about it,” says Hubert.

Ferdinand seems uncomfortable, but he doesn’t pull away.

“After tonight,” he says, almost sadly, “You need never touch me again, I promise.”

And suddenly Hubert pieces together several things: the gloves in Ferdinand’s nightstand, the scent of coffee, the tears that seemed more than the product of pain and humiliation. He feels light-headed. How could he have missed something so important?

“My regret is in hurting you, not in touching you, Ferdinand,” he says, daring to press a feather-light kiss behind the shell of Ferdinand’s ear.

At the touch of his lips, Ferdinand lets out a soft gasp, hand tightening around Hubert’s.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“You deserve to be worshiped,” says Hubert, drawing on words he’s kept locked away for so long. “You deserve tenderness and reverence and devotion. You deserve _better_.”

He’s scarcely finished the word when Ferdinand twists around in his arms, reaching for him, drawing him into a deep kiss. Ferdinand’s mouth is still raw and the taste of the leather is still sour on his tongue, but it’s nothing like the desperate thing they shared in Ferdinand’s bed, not with Ferdinand’s hand now carding through Hubert’s thick hair and his strong chest willingly pressed up against Hubert’s. Hubert slips his hand up to cup the other man’s face, returning the kiss with tender passion. Something of the knot in his stomach eases.

Neither one of them pushes it any further. When they pull apart, panting softly into one another’s mouths, it’s to sink back down into the yielding comfort of Hubert’s bed and close their eyes. Ferdinand’s head finds the crook of Hubert’s neck once more, this time with his breath ghosting over Hubert’s clavicle and Hubert’s hand threaded gently into his hair. His hand rests on Hubert’s shoulder, rubbing small circles into the fabric of his shirt.

“It seems we have left much unsaid,” murmurs Hubert, soothed by the weight of Ferdinand’s head on his chest, despite everything.

“Tomorrow,” says Ferdinand, sounding exhausted. “Please.”

“Yes,” says Hubert, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. “Tomorrow.”

And finally, they sleep.


End file.
